


The Devil At The Gate (The Serpent’s Tale Remix)

by skellerbvvt



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Magic, Marking, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-20
Updated: 2010-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skellerbvvt/pseuds/skellerbvvt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Merlin ends the world, because the world won't stop hurting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil At The Gate (The Serpent’s Tale Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This is a remix of my own work that was previous posted on the Merlin Kink Meme for the prompt: "Arthur/Merlin, Merlin goes over to the darkside. He and Arthur always end up having filthy dirty hate sex whenever they meet. Bonus points for Merlin using his magic to restrain/overpower Arthur and generally reveling in being able to openly use his power."

He'd give Merlin this: he allowed Arthur the privacy of his own room. He allowed Arthur warning, not much warning, mind—just enough of a signal for him to quickly withdraw from his business. Or, rather, it was that he could withdraw if he did not wish to embarrass himself publicly instead of just in rumors and “truth-to-God” stories from servants hovering at the doors.

Regardless of anything else—whether Arthur is already in his chamber, or whether he had to sprint there with no excuse and no dignity—it always started the same. It started with a familiar lurch in his gut: that supernatural leash that Merlin tugs on when he wants Arthur's...company, and Arthur always comes when beckoned, as he always has. He’s been trained to lead—to _a_ lead, in any case.

The warning tug would jerk at his navel, he’d escape, and there Merlin would be—whether Arthur burst in the door, or just turned around, Merlin would be there: silent as the changing of hours. He would usually be sitting in Arthur’s favorite chair—the one from his old chambers. It was an uncomfortable addition the room; something that was _Arthur’s_ in all the trappings left over from his father. As such, it was the only thing Merlin would sit in, one part nostalgic, all the rest taunting. As if to say _remember when you trusted me? Remember why this was all so easy?_. And Arthur would be helpless to do anything _but_ remember a time when Merlin had fumbled and stumbled and laughed, when he’d just been a boy and Arthur had just been a Prince and everything had been complicated in a deliriously simple way. Monsters to defeat, warlocks to fool, to hide from his father. Everything could be solved in a matter of days, everything could be solved by a spell and Arthur’s sword. Except for all those things they avoided, all those deaths they pretended weren’t happening. Except for all the people Merlin kept loving who kept dying. Except that eventually winning hadn’t been any fun at all anymore.

Then they would stare at each other, hovering condensed leagues of alienation apart, like they couldn’t even stop themselves. Well, Arthur couldn’t because Merlin was impossible to ignore, and Merlin couldn’t because…of something. Accusations, orders and insults always got caught in Arthur's throat, making it hard to breath or focus. Merlin would just watch him, hands clasped across his stomach, slouching in the furs and cushions of Arthur’s chair. Even when he was the devil himself, Merlin couldn’t keep his posture. Arthur would stand tall, refusing to turn away first—refusing to bend under their sudden and role-reversal.

Arthur hated Merlin—hated him the way only love turned sour can hate. He couldn’t forgive him, but Merlin never asked him to. He almost seemed insulted by the idea that Arthur thought Merlin needed _forgiveness_ of all things. That he was sorry for anything he had done, any of the little steps he taken to get where he was. Lying, stealing, ducking around corners, shoving grief after grief down—Will, Gwen, Freya, his Father, his Mother, Arthur, Gaius, Morgana—the people he’d killed to save Arthur. Over and over to save _Arthur_ , poisoning Morgana, killing his own kind, sacrificing himself and everyone in arms reach over, and over and over again. Making himself an outcast…but he wasn’t sorry. Merlin had no capacity for regret, remorse, nothing… just… momentarily satisfied in his power. He was just happy that Arthur always came when called. That he knelt, begged, moaned when ordered, because it was his fault; he’d been raised to take his punishment.

It always followed the same patterns. Merlin seemed as in love with the ritual as what it entailed. Merlin would always break the eye contact first; he would look at the bed. The bed Arthur could not sleep in no matter how many nights passed. He’s sleep on the stone floor, in piss covered hay, in horse dung, in the saddle, before he slept in that bed. It just sat in the middle of the room, large, impressive, everything in the room pointing and moving to address the bed, inform the bed. The room was made to worship the bed.

The bed where Merlin had taken such delight in maiming Arthur's fa...maiming Uth—the King. The bed where Merlin had killed the previous King, taking twisted delight in destroying the man who would have just as gleefully killed him. Merlin had hated who he’d had to hurt to save the King who wouldn’t lift a finger to help him at all.

“I poisoned Morgana for him, Arthur.” Merlin had said digging his hands into Uther’s intestines and tugging them. “I poisoned her, my friend, because you didn’t want your father to die. He would have let me die when I drank poison for you. He would have let my village be ransacked and destroyed, my mother raped and murdered, everything I loved dead, because he couldn’t send a few knights in disguise. He would have killed Gwen with no proof, he _did_ kill her father without even a thought.” Merlin had said, as he had peeled another strip of skin free. “He killed children, Arthur. He killed mothers and sons. He killed your mother and then refused to admit it. I had to _lie_ to you so you wouldn’t be the one to kill him. I had to risk you hating me forever because I didn’t want you to hate you forever. And for what? For a man who couldn’t even admit he loved you? For a man who, by turns, treated you like you couldn’t think for yourself, and then like you had to solve everything. Always on the front lines: you, as he hid away. Always the champion: you, as he…he turned away and refused to acknowledge what you could do.” Merlin had tossed the second eyeball to rest with the first. “He has killed _everyone_ , Arthur. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead too. Why don’t you understand?”

Arthur had only been able to watch. He knew. He knew all these things, but…Uther was his Father. Arthur could remember being lifted up on his shoulders to look out over their kingdom. He could remember his Father when he was happier, when, sometimes, he was almost proud of Arthur.

But Merlin hadn’t killed Uther.

“Why? What for? My father died because of _him_ , my mother was impoverished, hurt and living in fear because of _him_. Gaius was misused, mistreated and _tortured_ because of _him_. Morgana went mad because of _him_. Gwen’s family dead because of _him_ Everyone is dead _because of him_. He. Does. Not. Deserve. To. Live.” Merlin said, snapping off fingers and Arthur honestly had nothing left to vomit and he just gagged down his front again as his Father-no more than…No. No. He couldn’t…not now. Not now. He had to stay strong.

That was the same bed that Merlin took such delight in slamming Arthur down on and holding him there, with no gesture or movement. There was something inherently sick, something wrong with a man who could subjugate another with no effort expended. There was something inherent in Merlin’s magic that went against Arthur’s nature. There was something about the fact that, no matter how he struggled, Merlin wouldn’t even sweat. That there were no lucky blows, no skill, no weapons to fight against. His father had been right about what magic did to people, a power that made people Kings without the responsibility, that twisted them and made them think they were above their own mortal beginnings.

Once he’d secured Arthur, Merlin would just stand above him and stare as if he’d forgotten how to blink. He wouldn’t touch him then, just look, and cock his head and smile to himself. Merlin took far too much joy in seeing the runes he’d burned into Arthur’s skin—even more in putting them there, for that matter.

Slightly more, perhaps, then he had in slowly ripping hunks of flesh from Uther’s body—but only by a scant distance. Merlin had done nothing but stand at the end of the bed as Arthur’s…as the former king had fallen apart in bloody hunks of meat on the floor. No warriors death, no dignity, just screaming, drooling, bloody agony, and Arthur couldn’t do anything but watch. He wished he’d killed his father himself, anything to spare him…any of them…that. If he had killed his father after he found out about his mother, then he could have spared them so much grief. But Merlin didn’t kill Uther. He was full of far too much hate for that. His body had been destroyed, completely, of course. But Merlin kept Uther’s soul in a stone and when he was particularly displeased he’d shove his soul into a waiting animal’s body and torture him all over again. He’d hang the stone on the bedpost and make Uther watch what Merlin did to Arthur.

“He must be mad by now,” Arthur had said.

“He was already mad,” Merlin had replied, plucking up the stone, “but that doesn’t mean he isn’t entirely aware.”

After…after the room had smelled like a butcher’s shop Merlin had turned to Arthur—looking away from his achingly slow revenge. He’d turned to Arthur—Arthur who had tried to interrupt, who had stood trapped and motionless against the wall, knees and jaw aching for all he had battered against his own body to do _something_. He had been in full view of his father, his father had seen him, had kno—

He had been incapable of helping. Merlin had just turned to him and smiled as if he had been making another pathetic excuse for another incomprehensibly stupid action, but no, no, not when the former king lay like chunks of meat ready to be fed to—eaten by— He hadn’t asked for forgiveness, hadn’t asked Arthur to be pleased with him, just to see. Dangled the stone, just for Arthur to see. Merlin had burned the body and kept the ashes and put them into Arthur’s runes, shoved them into Arthur’s body, down to the bone.

There were runes like bruises over Arthur’s body, a new one each night Merlin visited. Merlin was writing something, he was crafting something, but it took almost all of his-energy, ashes of Arthur’s father, and what more Arthur couldn’t tell.

Merlin would only write on Arthur—only finish their engagement for the night—when Arthur was already too exhausted to do anything but grapple for air as he’d once grappled for victory. Once Arthur was nothing but the need for rest, only then would Merlin press his palm into the next space in his personal, nonsensical sequence. Then there would be agony, of course. There would be pain, flashing white pain and there, when Arthur woke up, would be no Merlin. Instead there would be a new mark he had no hope of deciphering. He would rub his thumb over it, would trace it with his fingers without knowing why, he was drawn to it as it was drawn on him. He was disgusted too, tried to cut them off, but they wouldn’t be moved.

They stretched expansively now, those marks. They curled up his left arm, spiraling down his chest in a wiggling snake-trail in the sand. They curled up to block out Arthur’s back, to follow his spine, until the meandered off, tipping down his thigh and tangling in complicated knots on the back of his calves, teasing at his ankle: twisting and moving and curling around him like bath-steam—only permanent and painful. He had hundreds of them, one for each and every of Merlin’s personal nights. He could mark his time as King by those marks— five years as King of a cursed land. No great King was he, not like everyone had said he was going to be. He was just a mad, desperate one who was becoming more of a scroll then man. When he died they would tan his hide and people would read the history of the world off his pelt.

That didn’t matter though. What mattered was the routine.

Arthur would take off his cloak and hang it up. He would sit down and remove his boots. He would go to his chests and drawers; he would slam his rings down into their holding places, not even pretending to be anyone of importance. He was a royal reduced to being the plaything and amusement of a man-beast who held more power than Arthur could even fathom. Merlin could move mountains, could dry out oceans, could turn the sky whatever color his fancy took and everyone knew. Everyone in Camelot knew of the Devil In The Woods. It was impossible not to know.

Merlin wouldn’t watch him, he would stare at the bed, as if that was the only step that mattered to him, and it was. His eyes, and Arthur would note the eyes every single time, every single _damned_ time, because they were always gold, amber, mixing molten metal. The blue had been drowned out ages ago, buried and suffocated.

The only thing left of who Merlin had been was Arthur. Merlin needed him— as if his mind had been wiped when the blue of his eyes fell away, and all that remained was Arthur. Arthur knows this, feels this, like he’s the pupil in the middle of Merlin’s entire existence, expanding and contracting, as Merlin needs him to. It was why Merlin kept coming back, Arthur supposed. Merlin had been marching war everywhere except Camelot; he’d been leaving Camelot standing on a whim. The people knew. They knew their King had made a deal to keep them safe. They knew that he would trade anything…was...trading something to keep his people safe. They know this, know this as they heard about horrors from other lands, about people turned into trees and entire armies melting into screams and wheels of skin and bone.

No man should have that much power, but Merlin did, and he didn’t…care. He didn’t care that he could rip the world asunder; he just stared at the bed and waited. He cared about the ritual. Maybe he cared about Arthur.

And, according to ritual, Arthur would then curse Merlin, as Merlin would just stare at the bed. Arthur would try to hurt him and Merlin would refuse to be harmed. Arthur didn’t know why he tried, no matter what he told himself or Merlin, he would still arch when Merlin touched him, he would still groan when Merlin bent to kiss his knee, to scratch up his thigh, to hate him and adore him.

“You betrayed me,” Arthur would say later, as Merlin sank into him, licking up the long line of runes and pinching precise bruises along his legs, burning new scars along Arthur's arms, his back, but leaving his face alone, never touching it, just...looking. Waiting. He always looked like he wasn’t entirely sure why he bothered fucking Arthur, why he always followed the same pattern of shoving Arthur down, forcing Arthur’s knees against his chest, because it made Arthur feel ridiculous. Merlin always looked confused, anticipatory, bored…lost. Arthur would turn away, not wanting to see.

That was later according to their unspoken itinerary. First Arthur would have to undo his belt and put it away with a slam to the drawers, he would…

Arthur paused, looking at the leather, thinking about how things went, how things always went, and then…then he dropped the belt. He let it coil on the floor and made no move to pick it up.

Merlin looked over. He cocked his head. He frowned.

He kept right on frowning; his entire body caught in that particular collision of confusion, anticipation and disorientation as Arthur undid the laces of his tunic and ripped that off, as he flung it across the room. Merlin watched as undid his trousers, as he took off his socks, stood naked. Merlin's eyes flared brighter— flickering sleepily and intense in the long dark of the winter solstice. Arthur was dressed only in Merlin’s stark runes and his dragon claw pendant. The pendant was something that never came off, something that refused to come off. He’d struggled with the clasp for weeks after Merlin vanished, and it did not leave his throat, refused to do anything but hang around his neck and bounce against his collarbone when he ran. Merlin, however, was still covered from head to toe. He was cloaked, hands covered by thick, warm gloves, feet encased in heavy boots, dripping baggy clothing that didn't make him look larger, just...lost. That this boy-king was the Devil was both laughable and disturbingly plausible. Devil, demon, spirit, force, god, it didn’t matter; people had their own names for him.

Merlin stared, not so bored anymore, was he?

Arthur padded forward as he stroked down the long line of sigils. Merlin watched him, all of him lost except for a new look, hungry, hungry, hungry, hungry, willing to devour all of creation, but still be left wanting. Having hundreds of nights with Arthur, but always wanting more, demanding more, and Arthur went, to keep his land safe.

He was allowed close. He was allowed to put his hands on the familiar wood of his chair arms and stare down at those foreign golden eyes.

Arthur buried his fingernails into the wood, "You promised to leave my people alone."

Merlin stared up at him, unfathomable and saying nothing. He never said anything anymore, maybe he just never needed to, maybe he’d traded his voice for more power, Arthur didn’t know, didn’t care. Let the memory of Merlin’s incessant voice burn like the memory of his good will and the memory of what it was like to sleep.

"You hurt _me_ Merlin— not them—that is what we agreed. Have I not come every time you’ve requested me? Have I not held up my side of this bargain?”

Merlin took off his gloves, where the scars from where Uth...the now dead king had tried to execute him remained. Merlin could easily have removed them, hidden them, pretended they never happened, but no. They remained. They remained for Arthur. They remained a message and a reminder. Grief upon grief upon grief until…

"I repealed the law, Merlin. Your people are not hurt here. You conquer other lands, you enslave other people but you _leave mine be_. What do you want from me? Why did you kill that village?" Arthur slammed his hands down, and watched as Merlin lifted one hand, clasped his fingers around Arthur’s dragon claw necklace and looked at it, as if he had never seen it before. He smiled quietly to himself—no, not smiled, he looked almost sad. The light slid different ways over his face, and where shadows moved, so did expressions.

"Tell me,” Arthur demanded.

Merlin flicked a hand and Arthur collapsed into his own bedcovers. He only had enough time to bounce slightly before his ankles and wrists were yanked away from supporting him, and he was left viciously spread over the sheets. He clenched his jaw and his fists and was still just as helpless as before.

Merlin got up, almost creaking with the effort, joints popping as he moved. He curled a hand around the bedpost, smiling to himself. He didn't need to make a motion to have slick trails of coldness run from one end of Arthur to another, no purpose, no thought, aimless travels that made him shiver.

"Mer-" he began and the trails changed: hot, prickly. Arthur let his head drop back, told himself this was not how he meant things to go. He could not give in, the agreement had been broken, “Merlin.”

Merlin took a certain degree of happiness in using magic on Arthur, something almost recognizable as he drove Arthur mad: panting, pleading, all without the use of his hands, no part of his physical form, and Arthur’s entire nature declared that _wrong_. Men were what their bodies were.

“This is the last night Merlin. Last time I’m doing this. You broke the agreement.”

The sensations ceased, but he was not let loose, because, suddenly Merlin was there, slipping from his normal shape and into that of a roaring wildcat. Arthur only had time to try and flail away, before Merlin shed the image. He tried to replace it, but he clearly did not know what he wanted to be. Fifteen different men flickered, an old woman, a little girl, a bear, a hawk, Merlin was unable to hold any form when he wasn’t calm, he switched through endless bodies while he screamed pure primal into Arthur’s face, screamed at the mere idea of Arthur not submitting. Like an upset child.

Then was himself again, naked, eyes like…eyes like… Arthur didn’t know. Most people’s faces contorted with rage, but Merlin’s entire existence twisted when crossed.

“You broke it, no more,” Arthur said, “you will leave. I don’t give myself willingly to you. Is that too complicated for you? You killed _my people_ Merlin. And don’t think I couldn’t tell that it was on purpose. No more. We’re done.”

Merlin’s snarl was replaced by a considering look. Eventually he swept fond knuckles over Arthur’s jaw: slow, tender, shaking.

“You can’t stop me,” Merlin eventually said. His voice was harsh and scratchy, and Arthur vaguely wondered when he’d last used it. It didn’t matter. “You could never control me, Arthur. Not the way you wanted to.” He moved a finger to lovingly follow the trial of runes, “it will be done tonight.”

Arthur felt the now-familiar tingle of deep, dark magic in his spine, no, not tingle: the slide, like mud, like syrup, slow and filling up the crevices, filling in the cracks insidiously and he blinked, trying to escape, but finding, once again, that he never could.

“I went to them,” Merlin explained, the harsh white scars of his hands brought to Arthur’s attention by the way Merlin rubbed the meat of his own palm, they hurt him still, perhaps— perhaps it was manipulation.

“I went to them, and in exchange I got you,” he looked at his hands and when he stretched his fingers his joints popped.

“You had me,” Arthur replied. “And now you’ve lost me.”

Merlin smiled, and Arthur felt the magic relent. Arthur didn’t waste time, tackling Merlin off the bed and onto the ground. Merlin bucked underneath him; Arthur pounded him back down, sinking his teeth into the side of Merlin’s neck. He smashed Merlin’s bird-thin wrist to the floor and wrapped him up in the firmest hold he had. They pounded at one another, smashed against, like birds, like hawks, claws and beaks and dirty moves. Arthur wanted to kill, he honestly wanted nothing more then to rip apart that smiling face he would have done anything for— but he’d been stopped, drugged, locked away before he could save his servant, his—

It didn’t matter.

Merlin had never let him _explain_ , and Arthur was past any desire to. With a harsh look Merlin dragged Arthur to a wall, he held him there, panting on the ground and once again Arthur resigned himself to the fact that he was held tight. Merlin laughed, falling on his back and tilting his head backwards to look up at Arthur. He laughed again—practically sweating enthusiasm for his own perplexing religion. Merlin sighed, relaxing into the floor for a moment, looking almost rolled upwards and pressed up against Arthur, pressing his ear to Arthur’s chest.

“Merlin-” Arthur began, as Merlin an his hands over his hip, moving inwards and pressing his fingers into the meat of Arthur’s legs looking for his pulse.

“Shhh,” Merlin said, eyes fluttering closed to listen, breath slowing as he smiled to himself. He almost looked normal—for a moment, like he didn’t need to rip anything apart, he just needed to listen. He finally gave a long, pleased sigh and moved Arthur’s tense and straining legs to wrap around his waist, gently despite how hard Arthur struggled against it. Merlin sighed and ran his hand up Arthur’s chest and pressed them against his throat. Arthur swallowed and Merlin just looked enchanted by the fact that Arthur’s heart was still beating.

“You’re off-beat,” Merlin noted, sounding almost drugged out. Arthur pressed himself more tightly to the wall, as if that could help him get away as Merlin wrapped his hands around Arthur’s throat, staring at his jugular and murmuring golden-eyed nonsense. Arthur’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest, confused and fighting to maintain it’s function, and he felt his entire left side seize.

“Shh, relax,” Merlin said, as Arthur heart beat faster before slowing and after a moment, seemed to find it’s footing again. After a moment Arthur noticed the thump in his chest was the same as the one jumping in Merlin’s throat.

Merlin’s contentment in their matching heartbeats was short, as he slid his hands down to Arthur’s ribs, “You’re off-beat.”

“Merlin, either kill me or leave, I ref-“ His air got caught in his throat and he couldn’t breath, couldn’t control when he took in air until he matched Merlin. Merlin smiled, taking a deep breath that filled Arthur’s lungs.

Then, when Arthur gave up trying to fight that, Merlin began rubbing them together, slowly, so slowly. He buried his face in Arthur’s neck, curled his arms around his torso in some odd beseeching gesture for comfort.

“Tonight, Camelot falls,” Merlin whispered like sweet talk. “They come in storm and siege, and they will rip everything to pieces. They will unite all those bits and pieces—you remember the bits and pieces, don’t you?— under one flag. My flag. Not that it matters, not really. I joined them, and in return I got you. Finally, finally got you to myself. No Uther, no laws, no you to get in the way of you.” He murmured, Arthur buckled against him, swearing. His arms were so tight to the stone that he could feel the texture grating in his bones.

“I don’t mind if you hate me, you know,” Merlin continued, refusing to look at him, talking to the skin of Arthur’s chest, “I know you do, I know you always sort of will, but I don’t care. I gave up everything for you. Literally, everything, so I don’t care.”

Merlin soothed a hand down Arthur’s side then pinched, grabbed flesh and dug his nails in, nails that turned to claws, pierced.

“All I care about is that you’re mine forever, you know, you know that now. So you can’t make me change my mind. You could talk all you want, offer anything, but I have what I want,” Merlin whispered. He drew back, then nipped at his ear, grinning against the skin of Arthur’s jaw, “Tell me you hate me.”

“I hate you,” Arthur replied. Merlin rubbed their bodies together, slick, slow, human, as Arthur’s kingdom faltered and fell around them, “I hate you. Merlin, I wish you had died. I wish you had burned and died and I never had to see you again.”

“Yes,” Merlin hissed and bucked up against him, “Tell me how much you want to kill me.”

“I would slit your throat, I would press steel to your neck, just keep pressing until your blood spurted everywhere. I’d decapitate you myself, bend you over the chopping block and sharpen the axe myself. I’d rip,” He groaned as Merlin bit, bit too hard, here, there, leaving indentations and bruises, “rip you to p-pieces,” pressed his hands to Arthur’s face and knocked his head back against the wall.

“I would watch you burn,” he swore, keeping eye contact until Merlin tilted his head too far back.

“Yes,” Merlin said, stroking his thumbs along Arthur’s cheekbones, “Yes you would. Go on and hate me. Hate me until you’re sick with it, because now you can't _leave_.”

Arthur snarled, lashed to the side and bit Merlin wrist, held on and clamped down until he hit blood and jerked his head from side to side like a dog trying to get a piece of meat. Merlin let him, not only _let_ him, but stroked his hair and whispered encouragement, rolling their hips together and smiled.

“What are you doing?” he asked, tearing away, licking the blood off his teeth. Merlin smiled, wide and innocuous, then pressed a finger to Arthur’s chest, cut him open and blood beaded out, a long strip of fluid before it began to run and Merlin bent to lick it up. Arthur panted around the shivery pain and Merlin’s lips and tongue teasing the wound open, getting more, hurting him more, touching him on the side of his skin that should feel nothing.

Merlin licked his lips as he pulled back. “Most powerful spells require an exchange of blood and…” he moaned as he wrapped his hand around their cocks, hissed through his teeth, tugging and rolling, hot, tight, too tight and too good and too very, very wrong. Too conditioned. Arthur pressed his cheek to the wall, letting the cold, rough stone hold him back, but it was too good. It was always too good and there was no reason for it.

Merlin just…just was, and he made the coil of pleasure undeniable. Merlin snapped Arthur’s head back, so they looked at each other, so they always looked at one another. Merlin pressed a hand to the final empty space of the long coil of magic symbols and as they both came he gritted out one, harsh, guttural word. Pain flared under the gut clenching and reflexive ecstasy.

“Sex,” Merlin concluded, stepping away as Arthur fell to the ground. “The death of the mother, the blood of the innocent, the ash of the father, adulteration of the honorable, exchange of fluids…really there isn’t much I can’t do with those.” Merlin said stroking Arthur’s hair. “All I wanted was you. I didn’t used to. I didn’t use to like you at all. It’s funny isn’t it? When you think about it? I used to have no idea who you were.”

Arthur knows it’s true, but he doesn’t believe him.

“Why are you doing this?”

“We don’t exist Arthur,” Merlin murmured, pressing his cheek to Arthur’s head. “I realized we didn’t exist, so it doesn’t matter. They’ll make us do whatever they want anyways. They made me want you, they _made_ me, so now I do and I'm going to _keep_ you and they can't stop me. They can't.”

“Who?” Arthur asked and Merlin kissed him, pressed his lips all over his face and ruffled Arthur’s hair.

“The words. You’d be burned into history even if you did nothing. You’re just a name, Arthur. We’re just names.”

Arthur was too tired to figure out what was going on, so he instead chose to just give into the black edges of his vision.

\---

When he did wake up he was on a bed of furs, in some place that was not his castle and Merlin was in the bed next to him, stroking the path of his black marks up and down and over, obsessive and compulsive, petting Arthur and murmuring to himself.

“What did you do?”

“Camelot has fallen.” Merlin said, “It’s ashes now. No one is left. None of the buildings are left either. It's all gone.”

“What did you do?”

“Soon all the nations of man will fall,” Merlin added, tracing up again, entranced. “Men themselves will fall shortly after, as men do. All of them, even the ones you’ve never even dreamed of. I’m going to take it all. You always said I should be more thorough. The whole world will be cleaner than your armor.”

“What did you do?”

“The world will be of magic, and we will not fall, not ever, I made sure of it.”

“What did you do?” Arthur asked and Merlin looked him in the eye and cupped his cheek.

“I have made you mine forever. I am immortal. So are you. I am untouchable. So are you. I am going to rule this world,” He smiled, slightly, kissing Arthur’s forehead, his lips dry and the touch too soft to be real. “I will rule this world, the world and you. It will all be mine so no one can hurt anyone anymore, no one can burn anyone anymore unless I say so. You are tied with the lands of the world, you know. You’re made of the soil and dirt of the land, that’s how you came to be. Took the life of plants and soil and worms to put you in your mother’s belly, and then you killed her. Born to kill, you were right, and I might have laughed. You’re the land, and so…I rule you, so I rule them. But I don’t want them.” Merlin tugged his ear.

“What did you do?” It was like they were the only words he knew anymore.

Merlin stared down at him and smiled, smiled as wide as he ever had, actually happy, vibrating with happiness. “I told you, I’ve told you. You never did listen to me. I sold everything I possessed to keep you; I traded this land, this entire world, everything man has touched. You would have been kept in slavery to the world for all eternity, you know, because you’re like…it’s arm. You are the world’s sword arm, and you would have never stopped swinging. You’d have to return each and every time something went wrong to save it, and then be put away again. There are so many people you’d have to _be_ , Arthur.” Merlin sighed, resting his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder, “It made me so tired. So, I changed it.”

“What did you do?”

Merlin stroked over his own chest where magic, bright and burning formed unknown letters in painfully bright light over his skin.

“I am Albion, Arthur. I am all the lands of the world,. I rule them all, brilliant isn’t it? You are doomed to an eternity. In exchange I gave myself to the world. It owns my soul instead of yours. Every pain it suffers, I will suffer, so I will unite it all and make sure it suffers nothing. I’ll fix it, because the world doesn’t care. It doesn’t, and I’m not you. I won’t save it. I won’t save them, people, because I don’t need them. They aren’t you, they always get in the way. Remember? They just attack and attack and attack. So I’ll get rid of them. The land doesn’t need them. We can have a civilization of dolphins, if we want. We can be the last people on earth.”

Arthur stared at him and went limp, he couldn’t even comprehend, but he should have. Merlin probably could kill off most of the nations of man with little effort. He could if he wanted to. Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath, because he couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

“What did you do?”

“I loved you,” Merlin finished, pulling him in close, close to that wicked heat, that hated embrace, that needed comfort because everything had fallen, everything had fallen to ash around Arthur. He had nothing left to hold onto, not even the tatters of duty or honor, just… He has nothing. He is a creature of nothing.

Merlin relaxed around him, “I loved you enough to let you hate me forever.”

“I will,” Arthur swore to the jut of Merlin’s shoulder, “I will hate you, I will always, always hate you. I will see you _dead_.” '

“Always and forever. Just us two. And all the animals we want. We can have horses and cats and dogs and anything else we want. Do you want otters?” Merlin whispered. He stroked along Arthur’s skin, carefully wrapped them up in furs and silks and all manner of decadence. Merlin let him sink in the warm haze of having nothing to do, nowhere to be, nothing to attain because he had already failed, failed in and at everything, everything and everywhere and could do nothing to save them, he’d tried, but he’d failed.

“I hate you,” and it sounded like plea.

“Sleep,” Merlin hushed him, stroking through his hair, “you have the rest of time to hate me, and I’ll be the only person in the world to hate. By the time you wake up, okay? I won’t make you watch. When you wake up it will be done, but I won't make you watch.”

Arthur struggled against the compulsion, staring as Merlin swum out of focus.

Then again, Merlin hadn’t been in focus since Arthur sold him out as a sorcerer, because he’d thought that the greatest betrayal Merlin could have committed, and he would have helped, helped in…

“Sleep.”

…in secret…but…he.

“Sleep.” Merlin said, and his voice changed and forced more then coaxed and Arthur shook his head.

“I’ll be here when you wake up. We can do whatever we want then.” Merlin promised and kissed him again.


End file.
